


something more than a catalog of non-definitive acts

by electricshoop



Series: The Art of Losing Oneself While Trying to Be Found (And Other Grand Escape Plans) [5]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Kissing, Light Angst, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:59:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21945484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoop/pseuds/electricshoop
Summary: It is Christmas, year after year after year.At some point, Gerry has company he actually enjoys.(Featuring mistletoe hung over impossible doors.)
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael
Series: The Art of Losing Oneself While Trying to Be Found (And Other Grand Escape Plans) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1487690
Comments: 26
Kudos: 171





	something more than a catalog of non-definitive acts

**Author's Note:**

> my readers, probably: huh, will they ever use anything other than The Shins lyrics for their fic titles?  
> me: hey, sure! here, have something from Siken because i'm not a coward and love his work unironically and mercilessly 
> 
> _So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog_  
>  _of non-definitive acts,_  
>  _something other than the desperation._
> 
> (taken from "Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out")
> 
> as always: by now, context is kind of important, so if you randomly find this, please be aware that this is part of a series. the long and short is: michael and gerry start interacting; michael eventually makes gerry into a Spiral avatar to save him from dying

  


It is Christmas, and Gerard Keay is one year old. A soft, warm voice tells him soft, warm things, calling him "Gerry", telling him how loved he is. The same voice tells him a good night story later and gently puts a brand new teddy bear in his little bed, arranged so that the fluffy fur is pressed against his tiny arm.

Naturally, he won't remember this just a few years later.

*

It is Christmas, and Gerard Keay is 17 years old. His mother has either forgotten the date, or she doesn't care. This is fine; Gerry doesn't care all that much, either. It's a Christian holiday, and he's pretty sure his family used to be Christian at some point, but somewhere between the heavy weight of family legacy and an array of cursed books, this has definitely lost all meaning.

(The book on his nightstand is one by Charles Dickens right now, though.)

His mother is on the phone with someone, arguing about the price of, Gerry can only guess, yet another Leitner. He's sat on the couch, trying his best to ignore the conversation, trying his best to not think about if she'll decide to drag him with her again. He's got his headphones on, but there's no music on right now; he just likes the sounds being drowned out.

Eventually, he gets up and crosses the living room, lined with tall book shelves, a few of his drawings at the wall, a sign of appreciation for his hobby and talent that continuously does nothing but confuse him. He stops in front of the window and draws the curtain back. Outside, the lights of the street lamps illuminate snow-covered streets; white and pure in a way that oddly soothes the mis-or-undirected anger inside of him. As far as he can see, the houses are decorated with Christmas lights. Even the apartment complexes are illuminated; a string of lights in that window, a glittering star hanging in the next one.

He sighs, and turns around to sit back down.

*

It is Christmas, and Gerard Keay is 24 years old.

He's in a bar, somewhere in a part of London he barely knows, slowly working his way from tipsy to drunk together with a handful of strangers who seem to have nothing better to do on this day, either.

Gerry drinks quickly, avoids any and all eye contact, refuses to take part in any and all of the scattered, sad conversations, feeling utterly out of place. Still - better, he thinks, than being home alone. Or being home not-alone. His mother had been weak when she had disappeared a few days ago, but he can never be sure how long the peace and quiet will actually last; how long it will take until she just shows up again. And wouldn't it be fitting, today? A visit from the ghost of Christmas past-present-future. _If she be like to die, she had better do it_ , he thinks, and snorts quietly to himself, and empties his glass.

Almost automatically, one of his hands comes to rest on his bag. The thick book, bound in this damned leather, is heavy, and he thinks of the last few pages, of the writing he refuses to get familiar with - he's never once read the words aloud, never once read all of them together at all. He thinks of it and feels sick. (Or it's the fou- five- six? The couple of gin tonics.)

Maybe, he thinks, maybe today will be the day that he'll just throw the stupid thing into the Thames. See if it helps.

*

It is Christmas, and Gerard Keay is 29 years old. He's in a cheap hotel room, filled with the scent he's learned clings to every single cheap hotel room - the same brand of washing powder, the same brand of visitors that come and go. He sits on the bed for a while, reading through a Twin Peaks fanfiction he only half pays attention to, then puts away his phone to walk over to the small desk, doodles a few eyes on the paper provided by the hotel (always the same paper, just the logos and names change). He returns to the bed eventually; reaches for his laptop. He gets through half an episode of Ghost Hunt UK (which, absolute bullshit) before he notices it, out of the corner of his eye. He's gotten rather good at noticing.

He quickly closes the laptop lid and gets up to walk over to the new door (wood, painted a pastel pink - he's yet to figure out if the different colors actually mean anything). He reaches for the door frame over his head and then waits for the door to be pushed open. It doesn't take long.

Gerry barely realizes the grin on his own face when Michael half steps through the door, hesitating when it's instantly met with Gerry already standing in front of it.

"Hi," Gerry says, and then points at the door frame. Michael looks quizzical for a moment and then glances up. 

"Ah." It reaches up to poke the mistletoe. "I did not put that there."

"Nope," Gerry grins at it. "I did."

"I see."

The less than excited reaction probably shouldn't surprise him, after months of regularly spending time with it, but it makes Gerry hesitate a little anyway. He shrugs. "Thought it might be charming."

"Oh, you often are," Michael agrees. "You tend to be charming in ways I do not understand, assistant." It pokes the mistletoe again. The small twig sways back and forth and for a moment looks like it's about to fall down; held there only with a small piece of adhesive tape, but it sticks, stubborn. Michael finally looks back down and right at him. "From what I have gathered about this, I believe you ought to kiss me now, yes?"

These words (of course, because Michael is so very good at this) makes the grin return to Gerry's face. He nods and reaches for Michael's shoulders - he has to pull it down a little in order to press a firm kiss to its lips (full of impossible, unnecessary angles; the sensation is still odd - charming, perhaps, in a way Gerry does not understand). 

An hour or so later (time seems to skip and move differently, whenever he spends it with Michael), he's lying less on the bed and more just draped over Michael, pressing a few quick kisses to its shoulder every now and then while it's holding Gerry's phone, reading the Twin Peaks fic Gerry found earlier. (Gerry assumes it's actually reading it, at least - whenever he turns his head to try and catch a glance of his phone's screen, it's full of distorted symbols that don't resemble anything letter-like. But Michael seems to enjoy itself, because of course it would be fond of the David Lynch-typical weirdness, so that's good enough.) Gerry thinks about Gertrude unceremoniously handing him an empty sketch book, neither declaring it a Christmas present, nor commenting on it in any other way, and rubs his cheek against Michael's shoulder, prompting it to lift a hand and let it rest against his back, and he closes his eyes and feels calm-content.

It's not one of the nights Michael spends sleeping, or, rather, napping - it still dislikes it greatly, Gerry suspects - but it stays, and lets Gerry lie on top of it, and when Gerry awakes in the middle of the night from dreams filled with fire and blood, it's the feeling of Michael running its fingers, long but not sharp, inhuman but not dangerous, through his hair that lets him fall back asleep quickly.

(It leaves the next morning, and when Michael appears again, a day or two before New Year's Eve, the door shows up in a side street Gerry was just passing by, and the mistletoe is still there.)

*

It is -, and Gerry is.

Time is a poorly thought-out construct, held together by poorly thought-out social expectations and people blindly following them.

Gerry opens a door, one of his own; not one of the ones he shares with Michael. It opens into a break room, in an Institute, and no one notices him.

He vaguely remembers figuring part of Micheal out because he found a picture of a company Christmas party on the website of the Institute. He tries to work out if the thought makes him sad, but he doesn't think so; whatever it makes him feel is more of an echo, the cry of a bird somewhere far in the distance, an entire mountain range away, or about two lifetimes. 

It's not Christmas, he thinks - it must be earlier, a few days at least, because three people are decorating the room, one of them singing a song called "Last Christmas", which Gerry thinks he should remember better than he does. 

"I'm pretty sure Jon will fire you if he hears you singing that song, Sasha," one of the men that are with the singer says, and she laughs and throws a mistletoe at him.

Gerry smiles a little.

The door is slowly being pulled shut. "Why were you watching?" Michael asks, its hand still on the doorknob, because Michael is there, because Michael always finds him, somehow. Michael always finds him. "It is not your job to watch anymore. It was never really your job."

He nods, and turns around to look at Michael. "It just occurred to me," he says, "that it's almost Christmas. I think." (Michael smirks at that; it's always so very pleased whenever Gerry gets confused about dates or time or, well, existence.) "And it'll be the first year without Gertrude. It's that new guy. That Jon."

Michael shrugs, the gesture so easy on and off its shoulders. "Does it matter?"

Gerry sighs quietly-

-and then realizes that behind Michael, its door, the one that brought it into this corridor, is still there. Pastel pink, a mistletoe taped to the door frame.

"Huh," Gerry makes, and looks at Michael, who looks impossibly, softly smug. "… Guess not," he says, and closes his eyes as Michael leans down to kiss him.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm still on [tumblr](https://electricshoops.tumblr.com)!


End file.
